Hail Warning

by Brett Arquette

  No one in the room made any attempt to stand, so Nolan shifted his gaze to the woman. His brain had to change gears, because the woman was strikingly beautiful. She was beautiful in the wreck your car into a telephone pole because she was standing on a street corner beautiful. He noticed her red hair, high cheekbones, perfect nose, strong chin, white skin and green eyes currently scrutinizing him. She was wearing a black blouse that showed a small glimpse of cleavage.

  “Please sit down,” the larger man said, gesturing for Nolan to pull up any one of the dozens of office chairs haphazardly strewn about the room. The lieutenant commander corralled the closest chair and rolled it across the iron floor to the table. They didn’t appear to be concerned that the chair was fabric and the pilot was still very wet. If they didn’t care, neither did he. Nolan sat and stared at the strangers before him.

  The man in the green polo asked, “What’s your name?”

  Nolan responded, “Foster Nolan, Lieutenant Commander, United States Navy, service number 452-29-3692.”

  “That’s all good to know,” he said, “but what we really want to know is ‘What in the hell were you thinking when you bombed the North Korean mainland’?”

  “Just doing my duty,” Nolan responded.

  “Really?” the woman shot back angrily. “We were told that you were a rogue pilot ordered back to your carrier. Rather than following your commander’s orders, you decided to go on an unsanctioned bombing run.”

  The lieutenant commander looked shocked and asked, “Who told you that?”

  The larger man answered, “The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Quentin Ford, told us that.”

  The pilot was now one stage past shocked. He looked totally stunned, as if he had been hit by a jolt of electricity and had become paralyzed. A few seconds ticked by, and the lieutenant commander slowly regained a small measure of his composure.

  He looked at the three people in front of him and said in a muted and somewhat defeated tone, “Who are you people?”

  The trio stared back at him with adjudication, making Nolan feel as if he were a pupil sent to the principal’s office, and now they were deciding his punishment.

  “My name is Marshall Hail,” the big guy said.

  Nolan recalled the helicopter with the writing on the side, Hail Industries.

  Hail continued with the introductions. Gesturing toward the woman, Hail said, “This is Kara Ramey. She works for the CIA.”

  Gesturing to the guy wearing the T-shirt, Hail said, “This is Gage Renner. He and I work together.”

  “Where—where—what—where are we? What ship is this?” the pilot asked. Nolan appeared confused.

  The man introduced as Gage Renner answered the question. “We are on the Hail Nucleus. This is a cargo vessel.”

  “Why is there an agent from the CIA on your cargo ship?” Nolan asked, taking in the fact that Renner had told him the ship was the Hail Nucleus. The lieutenant commander directed the question to whom he assumed was the ship’s owner, Marshall Hail.

  “No, that’s not the way this is going to work,” Hail told the pilot. “You get to ask a question. Then we get to ask a question. You got your question answered. Now it’s our turn.”

  Bluntly, Hail asked, “Why didn’t you call off your airstrike when you were ordered back to your carrier?”

  “Can I get out of these wet clothes?” he asked, looking down at the puddle of water forming around his boots.

  “Not yet,” the CIA operative told him. “We fished you out of the ocean. But we’re not sure if we’ll keep you or throw you back. Your honest answers to our questions determine whether an hour from now you are in dry clothes or floating around in a brand-new raft in the middle of the ocean. I may be mistaken, but I don’t think the next people who come to your rescue will be as pleasant.”

  “Why didn’t you call off your airstrike when you were ordered back to your carrier?” Marshall Hail repeated his question.

  Nolan looked down at the puddle again trying his best to wrap his mind around the question. To be honest, he didn’t know why he had turned off his radio and continued into North Korean airspace even after his mission had been scrubbed. It probably had something to do with the death of his brother. Two years prior, his brother had been killed in a terrorist attack that had taken the lives of thousands of people. His brother had been an Air Force jet pilot. They had been very close, and his death had really messed with Foster’s head. He had waited for years to get some payback, and this mission seemed to provide that unique opportunity. He would fly a single jet fighter into North Korea to blow up a warehouse holding ICBM parts that would soon be assembled into missiles. If that wasn’t destiny, Nolan didn’t know what was, and when the voice on the radio ordered him back to his carrier, he was only minutes from the warehouse. He figured a little look-see couldn’t hurt. He had been briefed on the purpose of the mission. A ground team had been sent in to neutralize the warehouse. His mission was to act as backup for the ground team, just in case the boys on the ground couldn’t get the job done. But it never hurt to check.

  So, he had done just that. He had done a flyby and verified that the warehouse had been blown to smithereens. But what he hadn’t counted on was the launch of two Chengdu J-20 jet fighters. The damn North Koreans were not supposed to have those advanced planes. The J-20s had just rolled off the floor in a Chinese factory no more than a year ago. No one, except for the Chinese, were supposed to be in possession of those advanced jet fighters. But lo and behold, the North Koreans did have them. And the rumor about those Chinese jets designed to go up against the American F-35 appeared to be true. Once the J-20s were airborne, those fast and nimble jets had run Nolan and his F-35 down. Before the lieutenant commander had cleared the North Korean mainland, he knew he was toast. Even before he had seen the military complex ahead of him.

  The large structure had been well-lit and multistoried. Since most of North Korea had little to no electricity, the lieutenant commander had assumed that the building was a special complex, maybe even a military installation. Prior to the target locked alarm, and before ejecting from his 337 million-dollar plane, Nolan had expelled a brand-new, never used in combat LOCO missile into the heart of the building. He still regretted that he barely had any time to enjoy the explosion. As the building disintegrated, Nolan heard a target locked alarm blare in his cockpit. He understood that he had a marginal chance of escaping one J-20, but two, no way José. All his instincts as a pilot told him it was time to leave the party. Once he was over the Sea of Japan, he yanked the ejection handle and that was that. Mission over.

  Hail was still waiting for an answer. The lieutenant commander mulled it over a little and ended up saying, “I just went in to verify that the target had been neutralized.”

  “And what about the missile that you fired?” Hail questioned.

  Without hesitation, and a little defensively, the pilot responded, “I was painted by the Chengdu and saw a target of opportunity, so I decided to take it out before I was shot down.”

  “And what type of target did you believe it was?” the beautiful woman asked Nolan.

  “A well-lit military target. After all, the North Koreans don’t waste energy powering anything that isn’t important to them.”

  Kara responded by asking, “Would it surprise you to know that the military target you mentioned was a hotel?”

  He responded with a big long, “Nooooo. It wasn’t.”

  But, in the back of his mind, now that she mentioned it, now that he thought about it, it did resemble a hotel. And there had been very few structures to use as a reference. The target had not been surrounded by other buildings. Other than an expanse of bright light, there was very little to see in the dark North Korean city. And to complicate matters, he was flying at full speed on full afterburner, hitting around Mach 1.5. The landscape unfolded like the track of the Monaco Grand Prix. One second nothing was there. And a second later, there was a big building with lights ablaze.
Nolan was proud that he could hit any target at that speed, but he was very disappointed to find out it was a hotel.

  To be totally honest with himself, he really didn’t give a damn what it was. He hated the North Koreans, as he did most radicalized nations. His personal view was a few less North Koreans was not a great loss to the world at large. Hell, their government had allowed 2.5 million of their citizens to die from starvation, while the leaders dined on imported Beluga caviar and drank Cristal champagne. The people of North Korea were damned from birth, and the entire population was nothing but brainwashed drones. For those citizens favored by the North Koreans in power, they enjoyed nothing more than adequate lives. Those who were not in favor knew nothing but suffering.

  Hail, Gage, and Kara sat studying Nolan, and he realized he’d been silent for quite some time. He felt like a rat in a cage being watched by scientists attempting to determine if he would be selected for the next drug trial.

  “Was it a hotel?” Nolan asked meekly.

  Hail sniffed twice and said, “We don’t know for sure.”

  Hail was lying. They had already received word that the Dongmyong Hotel in Pongch’un-dong had been vaporized. Hail simply felt that this information was something he could save to potentially use in the future. The questions they had been asking the pilot were designed to zero in how truly messed up the pilot was to disobey orders. For the pilot to go completely off the reservation during a straightforward mission was one thing. But the safety of Hail’s crew and his vessel were his main priorities. If they detected destructive tendencies in the pilot, he needed to leave. But, if Hail and his team sensed that Nolan was relatively stable, Nolan had a skillset Hail could use.

  “My turn to ask a question,” Hail said.

  “OK,” the pilot said with the meager tone of forfeiture in his voice.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “What do you mean?” The question caught him off guard.

  Louder, Hail said, “I don’t like to play games or waste time, Nolan. Are you crazy or not?”

  Nolan Foster contemplated the question before responding with great confidence, “I think everyone is crazy. I think the people who tell you they aren’t crazy are people that you should watch like a hawk.”

  Hail and Renner laughed. Kara did not. She didn’t even smile.

  Hail asked, “Are you going to kill anyone with that Beretta of yours, if we let you keep it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, tapping his hand on the weapon stuffed into his chest rig. “Do you have anyone that needs killing?”

  Hail smiled and said, “Yeah, I have a lot of people that need killing.”

  TWO YEARS AGO

  LAGOS, NIGERIA

  T he ancient garage doors opened from the outside. The hinges squeaked and the wood made crackling sounds. Afua Diambu thought for sure the doors were going to let go of the rusty screws holding them to the battered hinges and fall to the floor. But surprisingly, they held. The nighttime sounds of the city entered the dank wooden room, including faint music from an outdoor nightclub a few blocks away. Afua heard a parrot’s ear-splitting shriek that could be heard a mile away. But this bird was closer. It was most likely a pet left in a garage or on a back porch. Diambu also heard the omnipresent sounds of traffic in Lagos. The cars and motorbikes clogged the streets and filled the air with a thick, gray haze. Twenty-one million people competed for jobs, parking spaces and places to stand in the cramped megacity of Nigeria. Victor Kornev opened the large wooden slatted doors.

  Afua was surprised to see the backside of a small boat parked outside. The small watercraft was sitting on a boat trailer. Only one of the two trailer’s taillights burned red, indicating the trailer was currently connected to a vehicle.

  Kornev put his fingers to his mouth and whistled a quick sharp blast that hurt Afua’s ears.

  A ragged engine gunned once, and the boat began backing into the small warehouse. The two Boko Haram soldiers guarding the surface-to-air missile inside the building lifted their AK-47s to a ready position. They closely monitored the situation, not really expecting any activity requiring shooting streams of jacketed bullets. But, most of the time, when operations went south, it was unexpected. The entire boat fit inside the doublewide garage, but only half of the dilapidated Peugeot 403 that was towing it was hidden from view. The other half of the vehicle hung out into the narrow alley.

  The big Russian banged on the back of the Peugeot and it came to a stop. Without bothering to use the tow crank, Kornev flipped up the tow latch. He unclipped the safety chains, unplugged the trailer lights, and lifted the trailer from the ball supporting it. Gently, he set the tongue of the trailer onto the concrete floor. He banged a second time on the Peugeot, and the car emitted a puff of black smoke, easing forward. Kornev waved the smoke from his face. Afua knew the arms dealer wanted to get the doors closed for secrecy, but they also wanted to be able to inhale fresh air. Once the Peugeot was out of sight, Kornev began swinging

  one of the garage doors back-and-forth like a large fan to clear out the noxious fumes. One of the guards began doing the same with the other door with such vigor Afua was afraid the old door might pop off its hinges. Kornev must have thought the same thing. He called out to the guard, “Easy on that thing.”

  Afua watched the two men fan the room. Once the Russian was satisfied with the air quality, he closed his door. The guard followed his lead. The guard placed the heavy iron bar back across the doors, securing them.

  The boat looked very small to Afua. He knew he would be traveling across an entire ocean on a boat. He prayed to Jesus this was not the vessel in which he would be making his voyage. Although it looked like a short fishing boat, it was more of a small pleasure craft. It resembled one of the boats white tourists used when traveling from their large pleasure yachts anchored in deep water to the beach.

  It had two deep hulls on each side with a much smaller center hull. It was very common in all respects, with the exception that it lacked any type of writing indicating which company had made it. Afua had been around many boats, and almost all of them had some sort of manufacturer’s name inscribed on the hull. It did have a small canopy that had been folded back and locked down for its trip on the trailer. Afua noticed it had enough seats for six people. There was an open area between the split windshields that allowed access to the couch seats built into its narrow bow.

  The Russian tugged lightly on the garage doors to verify they were secure. He walked purposefully toward the back of the boat where Afua was standing. He kept ducking down to look underneath the boat. Kornev arrived at the back of the boat and checked down on his hands and knees to take a better look. The Russian motioned for Afua to look under the boat as well at something he was pointing at.

  “See that?” Victor Kornev asked in English.

  Afua dropped down on his hands and knees alongside the Russian and followed his finger. Other than the middle hull, Afua didn’t see anything.

  “No,” Afua said.

  “Right there. Look close,” Kornev ordered.

  Afua looked there again, still seeing nothing.

  “I still don’t see anything.”

  “Good,” Kornev told him, getting back to his feet. The Russian reached over and pulled loose an aluminum ladder that was folded and hinged to the back of the boat. Passengers could use this ladder to get in and out of the boat when it was in the water. It worked equally as well to climb into the boat when it was on a trailer.

  Kornev climbed the ladder’s rungs, stepped into the boat, and he halted at the steering wheel and driver’s seat. Afua joined him. Kornev pointed down at the controls, his finger centering on the dead man’s switch. A measure of cord was secured to a pin that was stuck into a hole in the dashboard. Typically, a dead man’s switch was worn by the driver of the boat. Its springy cord would be attached via Velcro around the driver’s wrist. If, for some reason, the driver was thrown from the boat, the pin would be pulled from its electrical connection, and the engi
ne would be shut off. It was a safety measure to ensure the boat didn’t continue without its driver.

  “You might think you know what that cord is for, but it isn’t what you think it is.”

  Afua didn’t have a clue what the cord was used for, so he simply nodded his head in agreement. The arms dealer continued.

  “If you pull this cord, the hull in the middle of the boat will fall out.”

  Kornev grabbed onto the cord and gave it a light tug. The pin zinged out of the hole, and they heard a loud metallic clang from underneath the boat. Kornev went to the back of the boat and climbed back out. Afua followed.

  The big blond man shimmied under the boat a few feet, until he could grab the tail end of the middle hull that was now resting on the concrete floor. After a grunt or two, Kornev slid back out and got back to his knees. Cradling the hull section in his arms, he handed it to Afua who was standing next to him. Once Kornev made it back to his feet, he took the hull section from Afua and carried it over to a wooden table. The table was about eight feet long. The hull stuck out over one end of the table an additional foot.

  The Russian took out a pocket knife, and he pulled out a blade that was a screwdriver. Making sure he had Afua’s undivided attention, he used the screwdriver to remove an access plate. The plate had at least a dozen screws and ran almost the entire length of the V-shaped aluminum section. Afua heard a sucking sound when Kornev used his screwdriver to pry the plate out of its airtight seal.

  “Now, there are several things I must show you about this device,” Kornev said. “First, this is the case that will hold both the missile and the missile launcher.” The case had come from a bass player, who upon selling the bass on the streets, no longer had any need for the instrument’s case. Kornev repurposed it for this mission.